


False Steps

by Sneaky_Apostate



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Court Shenanigans, F/M, Orlesian Politics, Post-Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, mage inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26231731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sneaky_Apostate/pseuds/Sneaky_Apostate
Summary: The duke's birthday soiree sees the arrival of a newcomer for the nobility to gossip about, and a new social companion for the Inquisitor.
Relationships: Fairbanks/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	False Steps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Current_Resident](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Current_Resident/gifts).



> Please enjoy!

The ballroom was neatly lit with rows of glittering candles, flickering wicks dancing side-by-side with the jovial guests of Duke Laurent de Ghislain. A great chandelier loomed above the crowd - the lighting centrepiece and, in Evelyn's opinion, a gigantic eyesore. 

The guest of honour, her Inquisitorialness herself, was keeping her distance from the crowd; contemplating the pros and cons of attempting to Fade Step her way through the throng and into the nearby library. She’d not exactly been the belle of the ball this evening, after all; what would a little disappearing act bother anyone? 

Well, perhaps it would bother Josephine. And Vivienne, who Evelyn wouldn’t need to spot in the crowd to feel the weight of her disapproval. 

She sighed, setting down her empty goblet and eyeing the opulent masses; her one dazzling appearance at the Winter Palace had made her the talk of the Orlesian nobility and a much more enticing commodity. However, it was a mask that she was not fond of taking up more than necessary - putting an end to Corypheus’ plans for the empress was an occasion that she had deemed important enough to dip her toes back into Society. The Grand Duke’s birthday, however, was not. 

“There she is - oh, Inquisitor!” Josephine’s voice was truly a feat, just the right hint of wine-warmth and an edge of desperation. She was a vision, resplendent in Montilyet-coloured silks of gold and navy - perfect to shine in Orlesian candlelight. 

Evelyn clenched her fist slightly upon seeing the gaggling retinue of nobles trailing after her diplomat - a vaguely amusing thought of ducklings crossed her mind - but she plastered a smile on her face.

“Josephine,” she replied warmly, nodding her head. “Were you searching for me?” 

“ _ Ardently _ , your worship,” Josephine replied, voice a rush of relief as she gestured with a sweeping, golden sleeve to the nobleman on her left. “Might I introduce the Vicomte de Melun, who has kindly invited us to his soiree at his fine estate next month?” 

With a graceful sidestep, Josephine placed a hand on the small of Evelyn’s back and coaxed her towards the man in question. Evelyn felt the barest hint of three taps of the hand through her dress, and she hurriedly tried to remember what the action corresponded to in her agreed-upon social code with Josephine. 

_ Three taps...resources opportunity.  _

She glanced at the man, understanding the judgement of Josephine when she caught sight of the studded rubies lining the elaborate embroidery of his golden doublet. 

“Vicomte de Melun, a pleasure to meet you,” Evelyn greeted him, emulating the memories of her lady mother’s gracious demeanour. “Your invitation is most kind.” 

The man hummed, taking her gloved hand in his own and pressing a courteous kiss to the knuckle. She wasn’t overly fond of how his touch lingered. 

“It is most necessary, Inquisitor,” the vicomte replied smoothly, releasing her hand. “The belle of the winter palace and bearer of Andraste’s flame gracing my estate would surely sweeten the sufferance of my retirement to the country.” 

_ It is not Andraste’s flame I carry, good sir, but another, _ she thought with an inward grimace, her hand bare and naked without the grip of her staff. 

Outwardly, she gave a light bell-chime of a laugh. 

“While I make no such claims to divinity, I will endeavour to ease your suffering.” She paused, carefully considering her words. “To be parted from the heart of society is a trial, but perhaps it will be a consolation to visit the country during such a lovely season.” 

Josephine, effortlessly harmonising with her tune, nodded along with her. 

“Indeed, your worship,” she added. “It is always the harvest season that carries the sweetest of breezes.” 

The vicomte paused for just a moment, enough to allow the two women to understand his consideration, before he gestured to the side for a waiting goblet-laden servant to approach. Taking the cue, Evelyn and Josephine followed his lead in picking up a drink. 

He held his own high. 

“Then, a toast to sweet breezes,” the vicomte said, allowing their ritualistic deal to be struck. 

Evelyn cast a sidewards glance to Josephine, and knew that the clink of their goblets was more satisfying than any battlefield victory to the diplomat. 

Their business concluded, the vicomte promptly found himself a glittering dance partner and excused himself to join the dizzying throng twirling underneath the centerpiece chandelier. 

Beside her, Josephine was flushed. 

“Wonderful work, Inquisitor,” she said in hushed tones, lips stiff so as to prevent any wandering bard from reading her words. “You handled him well; the vicomte’s country estate is known for producing a surplus of grain, even though he despises the location.” 

“He had to retire from society?” Evelyn asked, slightly wry. 

Josephine hummed with a nod, eyes gleaming with her gossip. 

“Indeed; his little faux pas at his brother-in-law’s luncheon last week made him the laughing stock of the court. He has no choice but to retire for this season,” she murmured. “His country soiree is an attempt to exit the season gracefully, and… well, if the Inquisitor herself publicly accepted his invitation, his reputation would be salvaged, and he would be  _ most  _ indebted to our cause.” She paused, casting her friend a concerned glance. “I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find you.” 

Evelyn felt a pang of guilt; she disliked these occasions, and despised the company among them, but she understood the necessity of diplomatic relations and regretted leaving her advisor and friend to fend for herself. 

“Yes, I was...catching my breath,” she replied, pausing for a moment before continuing. “Forgive me.” 

Josephine gave a small smile. 

“There is no harm done, Inquisitor; Madame de Fer and I make a fearsome pair at these events,” she said, a glint of something mischievous in her eye. “Catch your breath as often as necessary.” The woman cast a glance to the nearby ballroom entrance. “In fact, I’d recommend doing so out in the gardens; they’re quite lovely this evening.” 

With her wisdom said, Josephine excused herself and began to circulate once more. 

She had been right; Evelyn soon found that the gardens  _ were  _ quite lovely. The Grand Duke had spared no expense on the glittering greenery and blooming irises of gold and purple. Standing before a large flowerbed, Evelyn felt the tingle of the Fade on her skin; the touch of a nature-based mage had been employed, it seemed. 

“No gardener tended those bushes,” a voice came from behind her, and Evelyn whirled around to see a masked man approaching her. 

She tilted her head, and in the corner of her eye, spotted a gathering of nobles tittering by the nearby balcony as they watched the newcoming man. 

_ He’s that interesting? He must be an unknown to them, _ she thought wryly, and nodded her head in greeting. 

“I disagree, good sir,” Evelyn replied, voice cautious but diplomatic, as her mother would have no doubt stressed. “A gardener with unconventional tools is still a gardener, nonetheless.” 

He gave a low laugh, and Evelyn felt the edge of suspicion creep along her skin; there was something too open, too forward about this man that seemed ill at ease in the dance of Orlesian society. 

“I remember you favouring the staff, so I’d expect no other answer from you, Inquisitor,” the man said as he reached her side. 

Evelyn blinked, his voice now familiar due to their proximity. She peered at him shrewdly; the man was tall but held himself with an easy stance that suggested at least basic military training, he was clothed in a simple enough but tailored doublet of sky-blue with golden embroidery, and the sides of his mask were charmingly crafted in the evocative image of spread bird wings. 

“Forgive me,” she said, frowning and unable to keep her expression as smooth as her environment typically demanded. “I believe we’ve met, but I fear I cannot place your name.” 

He scoffed, but there was still mirth in his grey eyes. 

“I don’t particularly blame you for that, Inquisitor; I scarcely recognise myself in this get-up,” he replied, gesturing to the length of his apparel. “You’ll know me as Fairbanks, presently of Argon’s Lodge - thanks to your own assistance.” 

Her eyes widened, and due to her own adamant stance on refusing to wear masks to these social events, her expression was clear and readable. 

“Maker’s tits, of course you are!” She gasped, and then pulled herself up very suddenly, flushing at her break in decorum. 

To her relief, he just laughed, a few black strands of his loosely-tied hair brushing against the edges of his bird-like mask. 

“Isn’t that refreshing to hear?” Fairbanks mused, placing a hand on his chin. “It’s just occurred to me that I don’t think I’ve heard someone say anything obscene about the Maker since my arrival at this pompous affair. Sorely missed it, in truth.” 

Evelyn couldn’t help a grin. 

“A tragedy.” 

“I’m weeping, really,” Fairbanks replied, and then flicked the edge of his golden mask with a growl of annoyance. “Not that you’d be able to tell under this ridiculous thing.” 

She took him in, frowning and remembering their tense conversation within the quiet, wooden walls of Argon’s Lodge; his resigned but impassioned plea that to retake his noble name would be tighter than any cage the Freemen could have tossed him in. The way he had visibly seemed to deflate in relief once she’d handed him the unearthed eggs of his past so that he might promptly rebury them. 

She’d watched as he’d rejoined the throng of his followers - tall and warmly received - and had felt a pang of envy that he was afforded the freedom to be upfront and understood for himself, not for his bloodline or image. 

She, meanwhile, had the misfortune of being of noble-birth, magic-blessed, and apparently divinely marked. 

“If it’s any consolation,” Evelyn spoke up, a small smile at her lips, “you don’t fit in here.” 

He barked out a laugh. 

“Thank the Maker for that,” Fairbanks said, before straightening up and clasping his gloved hands together. “But I will admit that I’m officially here on business, I’m afraid.” He saw her questioning glance, and continued. “At Skyhold, your spymaster saw that I was planning to travel past this location and asked if I wouldn’t mind carrying a missive to yourself and your company. Even gave me this ridiculous get up so I could ‘blend in’.” 

He added the last words with a wry quirk of his lips, and then he reached into his pockets and handed her an enclosed missive. 

She nodded in thanks and promptly opened it; peering over her shoulder to make sure there were no bard eyes watching. Leliana was short and precise, simply tipping her off about a nearby rumour of Red Templars. 

Evelyn frowned, glancing up and staring at Fairbanks with more than a little confusion. 

“Odd...this is all she gave you?” She asked, scrunching the letter into one of the hidden pockets of her deep red dress. 

“I’m afraid so,” Fairbanks replied, sharing in her confusion. “Is something wrong?” 

She pursed her lips, but then quickly shook her head to clear her expression. 

“No, not at all; just odd that she should send you on such a direct mission for this,” she said, and then clasped her hands together. “But regardless, I am pleased to have your company; despite the environment, you do still look quite handsome, if you don’t mind my saying so.” 

He tilted his head, and the golden mask did nothing to conceal the faint tinge of colour to his cheeks. 

“Ah, you...have my thanks,” Fairbanks replied, reaching up to pull loose strands of his hair back behind his ear. “But in turn, allow me to compliment you myself, Inquisitor; you are a sight this evening.” 

Evelyn smiled, reaching down to tug at the tailored skirts of her dress; red with black velvet detailing - coloured for the Inquisition, of course. Unlike the dozens of sweet words from masked nobles throughout the evening, his was the first compliment that had warmed her to a flush; the man who dismissed the pageantry of society was the first she’d believe to be genuine in his affection. 

“You’re very kind,” she said. “Though I’d greatly prefer if you call me Evelyn.” 

He raised an eyebrow, but she could see the telltale pull of his grin.

“I thought one is supposed to use official titles at these puffed-up gatherings?” He leaned forward and even through the mask, there was a conspiratorial gleam to his eye as he continued in a whisper. “Are you planning to tread on these ‘rules’...Evelyn?” 

His voice on her name was warm, wine-rich in a way that almost made her pause. Instead, she shrugged. 

“I  _ am  _ an apostate,” she reminded him. “Why not a decorum rebel too?” 

He chuckled, but straightened, turning slightly towards the open doors leading back into the estate’s main building. 

“Well then,” Fairbanks said, and held out a gloved hand, “shall we rebel together?” 

She raised an eyebrow. 

“I thought you’d be itching to leave,” she said, and then glanced down as she feared for how that had sounded. “I merely mean, well, you’d delivered Leliana’s missive, and I know that you don’t really like this crowd, so…” She trailed off, wincing a little at her sudden, flustered attempt at words. 

“You’re correct, but I suspect you’re not comfortable here either,” he replied. “I’m not the sort of man to leave a friend suffering alone.” 

She stared down at him - something warm in her chest - before she jolted herself out of stillness and accepted his hand. 

“How could I refuse such an offer of aid?” Evelyn gestured towards the open doorway into the building - back into the foray. “Shall we?” 

The chandelier had not become any less of an eyesore since her last sighting; still the gaudy, indulgent display of wealth that Orlesians seemed to favour so. Unlike Evelyn, however, Fairbanks was more focused on the group dancing in twirling motions beneath it; his scowl was done no favours by the covering of his mask. 

“You know,” Evelyn began slowly, reaching up to grab the man’s arm and coax him towards the nearby sidetable of drinks, “I believe masks were supposed to be useful in helping one contain their distaste for their company.” 

If anything, his scowl deepened. 

“Any one of their fancy clothes - sweet maker, even the shoes - would be worth enough to feed my people for months,” he hissed, anger rather than decorum keeping his voice low. “These are the very people who toss a handkerchief to send our country to war, yet here they dance under their crystal chandeliers while those they displace must fight by their teeth to earn their day’s meal.” 

“You’ll hear no argument from me, but”-

A voice cut in between them.

“Permit me the intrusion, Inquisitor,” they said, and Evelyn turned to the side to see their esteemed host for the evening, one Duke Laurent de Ghislain. He wore a deep violet with fine, golden detailing and a high collar of lace. His eyes were unreadable through his mask as he continued. “I regret to steal your attention once more, but I fear that I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting your companion - and such a transgression would be unforgivable in a host of my...caliber, of course.” 

Evelyn managed to barely hide her wince; upon her arrival, she had immediately sought out the duke in the customary greeting of the host. To do otherwise was to risk being seen as immeasurably rude, and there was no chance of the Inquisitor being perceived as a rude guest so long as Josephine and Vivienne were in her company. 

Fairbanks, on the other hand, had not been as fortunate, it seemed. 

The man in question seemed to have at least sensed that he had stepped falsely in some way, even if he did not understand how. 

“I am Fairbanks,” he said, voice gruffer than Evelyn had heard all night. 

There was a beat of silence, and Evelyn felt the tension run taut. 

“Fairbanks,” the duke repeated, slowly as though he was waiting for the other man to continue. When he did not, Laurent twisted his lips into a smile. “I must have missed your entrance, good sir; you have my apologies.” 

Evelyn was not the most adept in these environments, but even she understood the dangerous ground they were treading. 

Fairbanks opened his mouth, but Evelyn jumped in before he could speak. 

“You missed nothing, your grace,” she reassured the man, and reached out to grab Fairbanks’ sleeve. “I fear I am at fault for his disappearance.” She stepped closer to Fairbanks and leaned slightly into his side, expression demure. “We have become so... _close_ since we met in the Emerald Graves, we simply couldn’t wait to see each other. Please do forgive us.” 

She glanced up at Fairbanks, careful to keep her expression in place but desperately hoping he understood her ploy. There was a creeping redness to his skin, yet his eyes were difficult to read through his avian mask. 

Finally, he raised a hand and placed it on the small of her back - a bit bold, she mused, but it still made the warmth in her chest return. His touch was light, almost doubtful in concern - and there was something in the fact that, in a courtroom filled with some of the most important figures in Orlesian society, she was the only person for whom he cared for decorum. 

“That’s...right,” Fairbanks finally added, voice low. “I...had to see her.” 

Evelyn did not need to see through the duke’s mask to know that he was scrutinising the two of them, and so she leaned back into Fairbanks' touch with just the slightest amount of subtlety that it could pass to watchful eyes as something she was attempting to hide. 

The duke seemed to smile underneath his mask, and took a sip of his wine. 

“How poor a host I would be to condemn the passion of Andraste’s herald,” he commented, and Evelyn held back her wince. “I believe we all have understood the ardour of such a flame.” 

There was something wry in his voice, but Evelyn believed that they were out of the woods of outright rudeness. She hid her breath of relief, and dutifully nodded along in agreement. 

The duke turned to Fairbanks, gesturing to him with his goblet. 

“Her worship will forgive my boldness, but I must say that I would be a fool to condemn anyone for holding such passions for her,” he commented, and Evelyn pointedly glanced at a single spot on the wall furthest away from her to mask her discomfort.

The duke paused, taking a slow sip from his goblet and never taking his eyes away from the other man, something scrutinising and almost predatory in his golden-masked gaze. 

“I pray any lucky chosen would give her anything she desired,” he said, and softly added, “even to the sun, perhaps... on blessed wings.” 

Evelyn's brow crinkled in confusion at the awkwardness of the duke's words, but was distracted as Fairbanks’ hand whipped away from her back like he'd been shocked. She glanced furtively to the side to see his skin paling underneath his mask. 

“What did you say?” He hissed, voice low and Evelyn’s eyes widened at the affront of his words. 

She tried to catch his eye, to try to signal to him to  _ stop, stop, stop _ , but he was ignoring her. 

The duke held his hands up. 

“Forgive me, have I misspoken?” He asked, but he received no answer. 

Fairbanks swallowed tightly and, without a word, whirled around and stormed off out of the ballroom. Evelyn’s mouth was slightly open as she rapidly glanced between the duke and the doorway her companion had exited. 

“Please excuse me, your grace,” she hurriedly said, sparing him a quick nod before following out of the doorway. 

She saw his rapidly retreating form at the edge of an empty and dimly-lit corridor leading to the estate's foyer. 

“Fairbanks!” Evelyn called, skipping in her steps and lifting her skirts to reach him quicker. 

For a moment, she thought he was going to ignore her again, but was relieved when he halted in his steps. The relief was short-lived, however, when she saw the scowl on his face. 

“Maker’s breath, I thought...I thought we had a  _ deal _ , Inquisitor,” Fairbanks said, words breathy with his anger. “I thought...I was foolish enough to think you understood.” He scoffed, shaking his head and refusing to look at her as he raked a hand through his hair. “Should never have trusted your ‘Inquisition’ to keep the secrets of us  _ lesser  _ men.” 

Evelyn’s brow creased. 

“Fairbanks, _ what  _ are you talking about?” She asked, a surprising trace of desperation in her voice. 

He pointed a finger at her. 

“You’re well aware, Inquisitor.” 

“No, I’m  _ really  _ not!” She hissed back, all decorum and worry lost, and fingertips warming underneath her glove as her Fade-kissed fire mirrored her frustration. 

Something in her expression seemed to at least get through to him, even though it did little to douse his own flame. 

He turned to the side, glancing to the long glass windows. 

“Maker, I’ve been a right fool,” he muttered, reaching up to pull off his mask. “Everyone is a pawn in the grander scheme, and for those of us who are not grand, our parts are not ours to play.” 

Evelyn took a slow step forward, eyes wide but sincere. 

“Fairbanks,” she said softly. “Please talk to me.” 

Finally, he looked back at her, deflated from his fury and expression now almost mournful. 

“Forgive me, Inquisitor,” he apologised with a frown. “I do not believe you played a part in this. You are too...genuine.” He dropped his avian mask on the ground, letting it clatter on the tiled floor. “Your spymaster had these clothes handed to me upon my arrival, you know? Said it would help me fit in long enough to hand you the missive.” 

He scoffed out a laugh, low and grim. 

“I feel such a fool for not having seen it sooner,” Fairbanks continued, gesturing to his doublet. “Sky blue, gold, and a falcon mask.” His smile was mirthless and rueful. “I single-handedly announced my identity to everyone inside that room, and I did it  _ willingly _ .” 

Evelyn felt her stomach drop. She had spent an afternoon with Leliana after giving her report of the events in the Emerald Graves, and the spymaster had made her case for the benefits of an alliance with a restored noble bastard, and her plan had not been kind.  _ His foolishness at court will make our enemies arrogant,  _ the hardened woman had said.  _ It will reveal invaluable information to our cause, and could save the lives of many over the comfort of just one.  _

It appeared, however, that Leliana had not waited for approval before going ahead with her plan. 

“Oh, Fairbanks,” Evelyn murmured, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry, I...didn’t know.” 

There was a moment of selfish pain, for though Fairbanks had never played The Game, but as a noblewoman, Evelyn _had_ dipped her toes in it and should have recognised this for the ploy it was. She had thought herself so clever at the Winter Palace, and so effortless with her dancing in The Game, and yet hadn’t even seen the move being played right before her eyes. 

He shook his head, dismissing her need for an apology. 

“I thought that I had put this to bed,” Fairbanks admitted, voice grimly wry. “Yet all I needed was a little push from your spymaster to be the jester at this show. Fool I am, I should never have thought anyone so far above it all would care for us nameless.” 

Evelyn winced. 

“I am so sorry this was how this was exposed,” she began, and paused briefly to consider her words. “But I think you need to know that this  _ is  _ Leliana’s idea of helping the ‘nameless’.” She held up a hand as the fury returned to his eyes, making him pause so she could finish. “It is galling in this society - believe me, I know - but there is a disgraceful amount of power to help the nameless with merely a title and a polite word.” 

Fairbanks scowled, turning away from her. 

“Forgive me, Inquisitor,” he said, something scornful in his voice, “if I do not take the word of a woman raised in luxury.” 

She stiffened. 

“I’m a  _ fucking _ mage, Fairbanks,” Evelyn snapped, hackles raised. “I was to be locked away in a Circle tower for my entire life. I was lucky enough to be allowed the occasional visitor because my family was particularly pious, but I was  _ supposed  _ to wither away in stone walls while the world moved on.” She took a breath, and continued with a trace of bitterness. “I was actually able to see my family’s castle from the window; able to see the very room I’d been raised in with my sisters. Just a lovely, constant reminder that _mocked_ me every, single day.” 

The anger had left Fairbanks’ face, and his expression was apologetic; that perfect amount of sincerity that she had been so endeared to throughout the evening. 

“Evelyn, I”- He began, but she cut him off. 

“I  _ am  _ sorry that this has happened to you tonight, Fairbanks, and I will swear to you right now that I am not going to let this happen again,” she said, low and genuine, and she clasped her hands together as she continued firmly. “But I remember the way that my mother danced circles around her court, so don’t you  _ dare  _ belittle my suffering simply because I use that memory and my position to scrape whatever shred of goodwill exists in these people for the benefit of those who cannot do the same.” 

He sighed, stepping forward, and she glanced up to see the mournful regret on his face. 

“I let my anger control my tongue, Evelyn, forgive me,” Fairbanks murmured, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. She allowed the touch, softening in his warmth and sincerity. He continued, glancing down at the mask he’d thrown on the ground. “This is not my world. I was born with a name I scorned and a destiny I thought I could control.” He paused, glancing towards the end of the corridor, where the faint lights of the ballroom could be seen. “I always thought that any steps I made into this world would always mean conceding.” 

She nodded, remembering her own distaste for having to play the courteous game once more at these events. 

“I understand,” she replied truthfully. “Fairbanks, I swear that I will never push you into any uncomfortable situations, and I will never let your wishes be disrespected like this again.” 

His hand moved from her shoulder to cup the side of her cheek, tender and cautious, as though he were worried he was overstepping. 

“Thank you, Evelyn,” he said, meeting her eyes. “It means more than you know to have you looking out for me. And...looking out for  _ everyone _ .” He glanced up again towards the ballroom. “I made a right scene in there, I believe. Forgive me if I would rather not return to them.” 

She tried to shrug off the redness in her cheeks at his touch. 

“I wouldn’t worry too much about them being preoccupied honestly; I heard a rumour that the duke is planning to challenge some vicomte to a duel over his cousin’s honour,” Evelyn said truthfully, remembering Vivienne detailing the night’s predicted controversies. “I believe you’ll be forgotten in an hour.” She paused, taking his hand on her cheek and clasping it within her own. “But I would still rather you be comfortable, and among like-minded companions.” 

He raised an eyebrow. 

“Like-minded companions?” He repeated, smile spreading to a grin. “I can think of only one other... and I am loathe to leave her bereft of company this evening.” 

Evelyn glanced down to hide her sheepishness, but as she stared at the tiled floor, she remembering Josephine’s assurance from earlier that her presence could be missed. 

“I think we could again be rebels, Fairbanks,” she said. “Shall we go and spend the evening in our like-minded companionship wandering the grounds and debating the duke’s gardening techniques?” 

The man chuckled, the richness returned to the sound. 

“Only if you agree that his technique is ‘using magic’,” he replied, playing along before sobering. He reached down to pick up the falcon mask and stared at it in his hands. “I suppose I ought to put this back on, then.” 

There was not an inch of her that agreed with that, and she gently pried it out of his fingers. She placed the mask down on the windowsill, catching his eye with a soft smile. 

“I think we can leave it,” Evelyn said, before adding in a hushed voice. “I don’t think it suited you, anyway.” 

His answering smile was all she needed to take his hand and lead him out into the open air, mask-less and at her side. 

  
  



End file.
